


Against the Rest of the World

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Depressed John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night Terrors, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Season/Series 04, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 10:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16217012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: Sherlock wakes from a nightmare and ponders the way his life has changed since Eurus--especially through John.





	Against the Rest of the World

**Author's Note:**

> TW: IMPLIED/REFERENCED DEPRESSION AND SUICIDAL IDEATION

_3.14159_

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He kept reciting digits of pi in his head, taking deep breaths from his chest.

He had about 35 memorized—it was all but useless knowledge, except for the sole purpose of calming him.

He put his head in his hands and continued breathing.

It was ridiculous, really, that this still happened.

It had been over a year since that day in his childhood home, and he could still hear Eurus’s voice and see John’s eyes—all hollowed from exhaustion.

He’d broken two promises that day—to take Eurus home, and to keep John safe.

He knew he was underserving of the people who cared for him—Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, John, even Mycroft.

But he’d hit a particular low that day, and he wondered if it was possible to ever make it up.

Molly Hooper hadn’t spoken to him for a month after the incident, and now their conversations were all but nonexistent—strictly formal and stiff.

Lestrade was a bit nicer to him than usual—sympathetic, perhaps—and Sherlock made a point to call him Greg.

He’d even made an acronym to remember:

G: Gregarious

R: Resistant

E: Erroneous

G: Good

Mycroft treated him about the same—calling to check in on him (or spying if he was being particularly stubborn) and hounding his friends and family members to find out the state of his well being.

It was John who had changed the most

that day, and that night, Sherlock truly thought that John might break.

His cracking voice trying to shoot that poor man, his face when looking at the coffin, his tired voice inside the well:

“ _Is this strictly relevant?”_

He should have been yelling, he should have been screaming at Sherlock to come save him already, he should have been murmuring prayers.

But he’d just sounded exhausted—as if he’d been waiting a long time to rest, and he was so close, but there was something in his way, just a little something, keeping him from sleeping.

In the cab that night, he’d look at Sherlock with red rimmed eyes.

“I’m so tired,” he’d whispered.

“We’ll be home soon.”

“No—I’m tired of—everything.”

Sherlock had turned to him, startled, hurt.

“Of me?”

“No, not you. Just....everything else.”

And then he was quiet.

Sherlock had been worried about him since—their time back at Baker Street (he’d refused to let him go home alone after making that statement in the cab) had shown few signs of healing him.

He still got up in the afternoon with bags beneath his eyes—and he didn’t smile at Rosie as much. That part broke Sherlock’s heart—the way John almost didn’t want to touch her.

He suspected it had something to do with Mary.

He had no idea how to repair the damage he’d caused to his best friend’s life—he just continued to do everything he could think of to cheer him.

He made tea every morning, he took care of Rosie, he played John’s favorites on the violin.

Nothing helped.

John had taken his arm one evening after he (Sherlock) had made a desperately poor attempt at John’s favorite meal.

“It’s alright,” he’d said laboriously. “You don’t have to keep doing stuff for me—it isn’t your fault, you know. Just...I’ll be fine, it’s okay.”

Sherlock didn’t believe him.

He kept dreaming of John drowning in that well, or leaving Baker Street without a trace, or blowing out his own brains.

He kept dreaming of Eurus behind glass, and Molly inside a coffin—and he dreamed the most painful dream of all—that none of this had happened, that he was happy.

And when he woke up to realize it was all but naught, he got so frustrated he cried.

Tonight was one such night, and curled up in his sheets, his hands in fists against his cheeks, he wished to God he could go back to sleep and feel that feeling again.

Three soft raps on his door.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice said. “You okay?”

He must’ve been awake pacing after Rosie fell asleep again and heard him.

“Fi...” he tried to complete the word, but his voice cracked.

John opened the door slowly, his figure outlined by the light in the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” he asked urgently. “Have you taken something?”

“No,” Sherlock hissed. “It’s just—it’s—“  _It’s_   _you_ , he thought. I can’t fix you.

“Breathe for a minute,” John said in a surprisingly kind voice. “In and out. In and out.”

Of course John would know how to handle a panic attack—he was a doctor.

_Is that what I’m having? A panic attack?_

His breathing slowly steadied him, until he could form proper words.

“It was just a dream,” he said feebly. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”  _But I didn’t._

“I was up. Do you...need anything? Some water, or something?”

He should his head meekly, half wishing him to leave, half wishing him to stay. God, please do not leave me alone.

“Alright...erm, do you wanna talk about it?”

“I need you,” he blurted out.

John stared at him, blinking in surprise.

“...what?”

“I need you, I don’t wanna be alone.” His tears were resurfacing. “I know I don’t deserve you, but I can’t—“ his voice broke again.

John stood for a few seconds in shock, then slowly made his way to Sherlock’s beside, pulling him in.

The touch shocked Sherlock (when was the last time someone put their hands on him in affection?) but he found it soothing. He leaned in.

“What made you think I was leaving?” John said gently.

“You’re unhappy,” Sherlock choked. “And I can’t—I don’t know how to fix it, and it’s my fault, it’s my fault that Mary died and that you almost did too and I—I can’t—“

“Hush,” John said softly, squeezing his shoulders. His voice was shaking. “It isn’t your fault, I’ve told you that. It’s—Jesus, Sherlock, it’s me. I’m angry at myself for this mess and that’s what’s making me depressed, not you.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Can we share the burden, then?” John said quietly. “Share the blame? I’m tired of being alone.”

“No more being alone,” Sherlock agreed, still shaking a bit.“We’ll fix this mess the two of us made, together.”

“Just the two of use against the rest of the world.”

 

 


End file.
